JABEZ SMITH MAKES A BUSINESS PROPOSITION When one is fired with an idea, the wisest thing is to work it out immediately, and Miss Andrews lost no time in carrying through her part of the bargain. She knew Jabez Smith’s habits from a year’s observation, and that evening, after supper, she hunted him out where he sat on the back porch of the house, reflectively smoking his pipe. His preference for the back porch over the front porch was one of his . From the front porch one could see the whole sweep of the valley, with its ever-changing beauties of light and shade. From the back one, nothing was visible but the hillside mounting steeply upward.
 
To be sure, if one leaned forward in his chair, a glimpse might be had of the mouth of a coal-mine high up on the hillside, and his sister said that it was to look at this that Jabez sat on the back porch. It seemed likely enough, for it was from that drift that he had enough money to make his remaining years comfortable. Jabez Smith had come into these mountains while they were yet a , unknown, or almost so, to white men, save where the highroads crossed them scores of miles apart. What circumstance had driven him from his home near Philadelphia was never known, but certain it was that he had alone into the mountains, and battled through them until he had reached the New River valley. Caprice, or perhaps the beauty of the place, moved him to make his home here. He bought two hundred acres of land for half as many dollars, built himself a rude log cabin, and settled down, to spend the remainder of his life in .
 
Then came the discovery of the great beds of coal, and the building of the railroad through this very valley. His two hundred acres jumped in value to a thousand times what he had paid for them, and when the Great Eastern Coal Company was organized to develop the mines, he sold to them all of the land except a few acres which he reserved for his home. There he had built a comfortable house, and had sent for his widowed sister to come and live with him. He gradually grew to be something of a power in the place, and had been postmaster ever since an office had been established there. It was he who had secured money for the erection of the school-house, and he had been the only local contributor to Mr. Bayliss’s church. Still, he was a man, and bore the reputation of being harsh. Women said that was because he had never married. Men wondered why, with all his wealth, he should be content to spend his life in this and unattractive place. But he seemed to pay no to all these comments. He formed habits of peculiar , and one of these was, as has been already said, to sit on the back porch after supper and smoke an evening pipe.
 
It was there he was that Sunday evening, and he turned as he heard steps on the porch behind him.
 
“Ah, Miss Bessie, good evenin’,” he said cordially. “Won’t y’ take a cheer?” And he waved his hand toward a little low rocker that stood in one corner. “I hope y’ don’t object t’ terbaccer,” he added, as she brought the chair forward and sat down.
 
“Do you suppose I should have come here to disturb you if I did?” she retorted laughingly. “I want you to keep on smoking. I know a man is always more inclined to grant a favor when he’s smoking.”
 
He glanced at her quickly, with just a trace of suspicion in his eyes, and moved uneasily in his chair.
 
“What’s th’ favor?” he asked.
 
“You remember I was telling you the other day about Tommy Remington,” she began, “and you said something must be done for the boy, and that you wished to help.”
 
“’Twasn’t exactly thet,” he corrected, smiling in spite of himself, “but thet’ll do.”
 
“Well, we have a plan,” she continued, “a good plan, I believe”; and she told him of her talk with Mr. Bayliss.
 
He sat silent for a long time after she had finished, smoking slowly, and looking at the hillside.
 
“I dunno,” he said at last. “I dunno. It’s a resky thing t’ send a boy out thet way. But mebbe it’ll turn out all right. As I understan’, it’ll take nine hunderd dollars t’ put it through.”
 
“Nine hundred,” she nodded.
 
He took a long whiff and watched the smoke as it circled slowly upward.
 
“Nine hunderd,” he repeated. “Thet’s a lot o’ money—a good bit o’ money. I’m afeard I ain’t got thet much t’ give away, Miss Bessie. I don’ believe in givin’ people money, anyways.”
 
He glanced at her and saw how her face changed. Her voice was trembling a little when she .
 
“Very well, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Of course it is a lot of money. I had no right to ask you.” And she rose to go. “I’ll tell Mr. Bayliss, and we will find some other plan.”
 
“Set down!” he interrupted, almost roughly. “Set down, an’ wait till I git through.”
 
She sat down again, looking at him with not unmixed with fear.
 
“Now,” he continued, “I said I didn’t hev thet much money t’ give away, but thet ain’t sayin’ I ain’t got it t’ loan. Now I’m a business man. I don’ believe in fosterin’ porpers. If this yere Tommy o’ yourn shows he’s got th’ stuff in him t’ make a scholar, an’ you git his father t’ consent t’ his goin’ away, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, jest as a business proposition. I’ll loan him three hunderd dollars at five per cent., t’ be paid back when he earns it. Thet’ll pay fer one year, an’ I reckon I make th’ same proposition when th’ second an’ third years come round, pervided, of course, th’ boy turns out th’ way you expect. Ef ’t takes four years, why, all right.”
 
He stopped to get his pipe going again, and his hearer started from her chair with eyes.
 
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” she began, but he waved her back.
 
“Set down, can’t yer?” he cried, more fiercely than ever; and she sank back again, beginning at last to understand something of this man. “I ain’t through yet. When you git ready fer the money, you come t’ me an’ I’ll make out th’ note. You kin take it t’ him an’ let him sign it. But I don’ want no polly-foxin’ roun’ me. I won’t stan’ it. You tell th’ boy t’ keep away from me, an’ don’ you let anybody else know about it, er I won’t loan him a cent.”
 
She sat looking at him, her lips trembling.
 
“Now you mind,” he repeated , shaking his pipe at her, but not daring to meet her eyes. “I won’t have no foolin’. Promise you’ll keep this t’ yourself.”
 
She was laughing now, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
 
“I promise,” she cried. “But oh, Mr. Smith, you can’t prevent my thinking, though you may prevent my talking. Do you want to know what I think of what you’ve done?”
 
He shook a threatening finger, but she was bending over him and looking down into his eyes.
 
“No, you can’t frighten me! I’m not in the least afraid of you, for I think you’re a dear, dear, dear!”
 
He half started from his chair, but she turned and fled into the house, casting one sparkling glance over her shoulder as she went. He sank back into his seat with a face quite the reverse of angry, and started up his pipe again, and as he gazed out at the hillside he was tasting one of the great sweetnesses of life.
 
That evening, at the close of the service in the little church, Miss Andrews waited for the minister, to tell him her good news.
 
“And who is this Good Samaritan?” he asked, when she had finished. “It may be business, as he says, but it’s rather queer business, it seems to me, to lend a boy nine hundred dollars, with no security but his own, and with an indefinite time in which to repay it. What could have persuaded him to do it?”
 
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “he saw the boy.”
 
“And the boy had you to plead his cause,” he added, smiling at her. “Come, I’ll not ask you again who this mysterious is. Perhaps I suspect. I think I’ve had some dealings with him myself.”
 
“I knew it!” she cried, clapping her hands in her excitement. “I knew this was not the first time, the moment he began to talk harshly to me. Oh, you should have heard him!”
 
“I have heard him,” he laughed. “Yes, and felt him, too.”
 
“Tell me.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“He would not like it. Besides, I promised not to.”
 
“But you will mention no names,” she protested. “You will not tell me who he is. Surely, he could not object to that!”
 
“I fear that is a dangerous subtlety,” he said, smiling; “but it can do no harm, since you already know.”
 
Here is the story—with a few details about himself which the minister somehow neglected to give.
 
Three years before, there had been a strike in the mines of the Great Eastern Coal Company. What caused it is no matter now—some , real or fancied, on the part of the miners. They had demanded , the company had refused to make any change in the existing order of things, and, in consequence, one morning, when the whistle blew, not a single man answered it, and the mines were shut down.
 
For a time things went much as usual in New River valley. The miners sat in front of their houses smoking, or gathered in little groups here and there to talk over the situation. But by degrees the appearance of contentment disappeared. None of the men had saved much money; many had none at all; still more were already in debt at the company store—they had got into the habit of exceeding their there, of receiving, at the end of every month, instead of a pay envelope, a “snake statement,” with a line drawn from indebtedness to credit given. Further credit at the store was refused, and it was whispered about that the company meant to starve them into subjection. The faces of the men began to show an ; the groups became larger and the talk took on a menacing tone. The reporters who had hurried to the scene telegraphed their papers that there would soon be trouble in the New River valley.
 
During all this time Mr. Bayliss had worked unceasingly to bring the strike to an end. He had with the officials of the company, and with the men. Both sides were . The men threatened violence; the company responded that in the event of violence it would call on the law to protect its property, and that the of the troops would be loaded with ball. In the meantime the wives and children of the miners had no food, and things were growing desperate.
 
Just when matters were at their worst, a strange thing happened. One of the miners one morning found a sack of flour on his doorstep; another found a side of bacon; a third a basket of potatoes; a fourth, a measure of meal. Whence the gifts came no one knew; and no one tried to probe the mystery, for it was whispered about that it was bad luck to try to discover the giver, since he evidently wished to remain unknown. Word of all this came, of course, to Mr. Bayliss, and he wondered like the rest.
 
He was called, one night, to a cabin on the mountain-side, where a miner’s wife lay ill. It was not till long past midnight that she dropped asleep, and after comforting the husband and children as well as lay in his power, he left the cabin and started homeward. It was a clear, starlit night in late October, and he lingered on the way to breathe in the sweet, fresh of the woods—a pleasant contrast to the close cabin he had just left. As he paused for a moment to look along the valley, and wonder anew at its beauty, he heard footsteps mounting the path toward him, and glancing down, he saw a man approaching apparently carrying a heavy load. Wondering who it could be abroad at this hour, he stood where he was and awaited the stranger’s approach. But he did not come directly to him. He turned up a path which led to a cabin, and the watcher saw him place a bundle on the doorstep. With leaping heart, he understood. It was the man who had been saving the miners’ families from starvation.
 
His pulse was beating strangely as he saw the man return to the main path and again mount toward him. As he came opposite him, the minister stepped out of the shadow.
 
“My friend,” he said gently.
 
The stranger started as though detected in the commission of some crime, dropped the sacks he was carrying, and sprang upon the other.
 
“What d’ y’ mean?” he cried , clutching him fiercely by the shoulders. “Spyin’, was y’?”
 
The minister smiled into his face, despite the pain his rough clasp caused him.
 
“No, I was not spying, Mr. Smith,” he said. “I came this way quite by accident. But I thank God for the accident that has made you known to me.”
 
Jabez Smith dropped his hands.
 
“The preacher!” he muttered, and looked at him shamefacedly. “Promise me you’ll fergit about this, Mr. Bayliss.”
 
“How can I promise what I can never do?” asked the other, with a smile. “I shall remember it night and morning in my prayers.”
 
“At least,” said Jabez, , “promise me you’ll tell nobody, sir. If y’ do tell,” he added fiercely, “it’ll stop right here!”
 
The minister smiled at him through a mist of tears.
 
“I’ll promise to tell no one, Mr. Smith,” he said.
 
“That’ll do,” Jabez. “Good night.” And he turned to pick up his bundles.
 
“Nay,” said the minister, quickly, “not yet. Let me help you. That is too heavy a load for one man, however light his heart may be.” And he stooped and picked up two of the sacks.
 
The other a little, but saw it was of no use to protest, and they up the hill together. At last every one of the bundles had been left behind, and they turned homeward.
 
“Mr. Smith,” began the minister, softly, “I can’t tell you how my heart has been moved to-night.”
 
“Stop!” cried the other. “Stop! I won’t have it!”
 
“At least, let me ease you of this night toil,” persisted the minister. “You must not tax your strength like this, night after night. I can guess what joy it gives you, but you will kill yourself, or at best bring on serious illness.”
 
The other shook his head and walked on in silence.
 
“But I may help you as I have to-night,” the minister pleaded. “Let me do that. I should love to do it. I take no credit to myself, but I should love to do it.”
 
It was only after much that Jabez consented even to this. But consent he did, finally, and every night after that they went together on their errand of mercy, until at last miners and mine-owners reached a compromise and the strike ended. Since then, other cases of great need had been helped in the same way—only cases, though, and in no instance had he helped the lazy or idle. A man who would not work, declared Jabez, sternly, deserved to starve.
 
When Miss Andrews that evening ran up the steps which led to the door of the Smith homestead, her lips still quivering from the story she had heard, she caught a glimpse of the owner. It was only a glimpse, for when he saw her coming he dived hastily indoors.